A Leave-Taking

As sober as November
The tree has no small talk left:
Leaves as witty as grandma’s lore,
Gold and russet brown
Must take their chances
With slush and mud.
(I am numb with my own spasms.)

Ah, for the lurching February,
Though drunk, on the rocks
Leave a sodden trail as he go out.
If finches are here for feed
I know Spring, in splash of colors
Shall soon knock on the door.
Sad premonition-
In one year I have aged
Beyond wise counsel and repair.
benny